Poetry’s my life and breath.
It breathes beyond the veil of death.
Composed within clandestine caves
by phantoms from their ghostly graves.
Poetry’s the queen of love,
whose rhymes are blessed by God above.
It\'s selfless, sincere, never sham,
like lordly lion or little lamb.
Poetry’s my meat and drink.
It flows from feelings, and I think
it surges like a seething sea
of sacramental symmetry.
Poetry’s a megaphone,
a wizard\'s philosophic stone.
It never can be praised too much:
has Muse’s golden, Midas touch!
Poetry’s my right-hand-man.
It pens its pearls from precious plan,
and lays down metered verse in rhyme,
like lovely lotus grown in slime.